


When I'm Small

by brittlelimbs



Series: Reylux Drabbles [4]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, Light Dom/sub, Orgasm Denial, Riding, Sleepy Sex, Spooning, darkside!rey, dom!rey, rey's the big spoon, sub!Kylo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 19:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6342043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on @mnemehoshiko's prompt: "Alternative prompts, 1) orgasm denial, 2) Kylo (and Rey) getting an awkward boners post-fights, 3) Spooning (with maybe extra) with Rey as the big spoon? (Preference is dom!Rey for all of them)"</p><p>The war with the Resistance has been long, and they are both so, so tired, but Kylo Ren has discovered something wonderful: Rey is very good at taking care of her Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I'm Small

Somehow, Ren thinks, his bed has become much softer with her in it.  
No longer such an empty space, a place to toss and tremble between the sheets in the vice-tight grip of his terrible, horrible, rememberings. Or maybe not softer, per say, but better, _warmer_ in a multiplicity of ways– Rey runs hot, like she’s still got Jakku all hidden up inside her, and she burns him clean where he’s frostbit, helps provide a little articulation of space where he’s untethered, drifting in the yawning void of high thread-count cotton, the darkness of his room. 

She likes to hem him in, her tiny breast to his back, palms like little brands on his belly and his chest and all his white, white scars, and he likes this. He _needs_ it. He can’t sleep without her, now, doesn’t want to be in that bed without her in it, and, somewhere along the line, he became okay with this (Kylo Ren is a man who needs something to yoke himself to, to follow, always, forever, and it’s pathetic but it’s also the truth, so). Ren takes, Rey gives, and it’s pretty perfect overall—except that sometimes, he needs a little _more._  

He’s in a half-haze tonight, eyes bleary, shucking his layers off into great piles on the floor of their quarters, heavy and dark like the pelt of some black, stinking beast. Cloak, obi, surcoat, midcoat, tunic. He’s so tired that he’s peeling off his pants before he remembers that he’s still wearing his boots; he sits heavily on the edge of the bed with a sigh, and pulls those off, too.  
It had been a long day. A lot of people had died, theirs and not theirs. Ren had spent the last twenty four hours screaming into white-blind snow, staggering around on this terrible, star-forsaken moon until he thought his head might burst with it. His apprentice wasn’t at his side, and he could feel her, hale and swift and brutally beautiful, as always, but he couldn’t see her and—well, the worry might have sapped him more than exertion did, if he’s honest. It’s hard to fight when you’re split right down the middle, one half of you across the continent with a different saber in your hands, a different skyline to watch go up in smoke. His head aches with double-vision, double-feel. 

In the end, they hadn’t won, but they hadn’t lost, precisely, either; _an inconvenience_ , Hux sneered once Ren was back on board the Finalizer, marching at Ren’s elbow with that stupid, snippy stride of his, briefing him in the long corridors back to Ren’s quarters.  
If he had felt like anything more than a shell, a specter, Hux would be in two neat, bloodless pieces right now, smoldering gently in a hallway somewhere above the residential sector.    
But here they are, very much alive: the war has been bitter and long, and Kylo Ren wants, very badly, to rest.

She’s here. He rustles on the comforter, sleepily smacking his lips at the tickle of her presence; at some indeterminable point, he’d gone and passed the fuck out. Unwise, perhaps; he feels the divot of her bodyweight as she climbs into bed beside him, and realizes, vaguely, that he’s still half-wearing his pants. Also: he hasn’t showered.  
“You reek,” she mumbles, linens hissing and crumpling as she slides beneath.  
“I know.”  
“Get under the covers.”  
He obeys, watching her through sleep-slitted eyes. He kicks off his pants while she’s tracking him from their soft, grey cocoon, all sweet smelling and damp from the ‘fresher. She’s very tired, too; it’s strange, seeing those golden eyes couched in bruise-darkness like that. He wants to kiss them away, kind of. Maybe he will. 

When he finally piles into bed, turning away, she latches onto his back without even having to be begged. That’s how he knows that she’s truly _exhausted_ : his favorite kind of comfort, easy as breathing, becoming automatic in this strange limbo-space of aching muscles and deliriousness. She’s curled around him, a physical type of protection, and nothing feels better than giving up to that knowledge; he’s disgusting, tacky with dried sweat and crusted blood, coated with the bitterness of battle, but the skin on skin feels _amazing_. The lithe soap-smell of her is bracketed around him, and he’s reminded: right. He’s hers. Hers hers hers—  
Her hand is warm between his legs. He grunts, bucking in surprise, suddenly reeled rudely back in from unconsciousness. It’s an easy reach around for her, a natural thing, and they’ve been doing this a lot, lately. But he’s past tired right now, they both are, and his apprentice is fucking _insane_. 

“Rey—“

“You’re right,” she breathes shakily. He feels her eyelashes brushing his shoulder blade, slow, drowsy. _Mine._

Yeah, crazy. Not right in the head. He curses himself for thinking too loudly, again, and begrudges their weariness, but he’s smiling into the darkness because _yes, good_ ; he’s crazy, too. This is what he needs, underneath it all, squirming as her hot, hot hand keeps rubbing, palm cupping him where he’s starting to fill. A whimper drops from his lips as she slips deft fingers beneath his waistband, finding the warmth of him. She grasps at his cock, rough, intense, and Ren feels like he might just about die. The strokes are brusque and clumsy with exhaustion, but Ren’s babbling into his pillow; _it’s too much, it’s too much_. 

“Rey,” he tries again, half-mumbling, half-begging. She likes it when he begs. Mercy, maybe. But no such luck tonight; he’s silenced with a bite to the shoulder, kindling the blood-hot pulse in his belly every higher, and all at once Rey’s little hand is straining to encompass the girth of him: he’s more tired than he’s ever been, yet impossibly, achingly hard. This must be a dream, he thinks. Just her thumb and middle finger strain to meet around his cock when he’s this turned on, and while Ren usually flushes with pride at the sight, stars, it’s always that Rey _loves_ it. She hums into the crook between his shoulder and his neck, the satisfied sound of it tangling into his hair, then the hand is gone with a rush of chilly air and Ren’s on his back and _oh_ she’s sinking shakily down on him, just like that. Hot and wet and silkenly fit, as easy as his leather gloves. 

“Rey. O-Oh, _Rey_.”

She’s riding him, fitting him to her like they were made perfect for each other (there goes his fucking poet mind again, for starrsake), and his hands are reaching out to try to touch this sacred, golden, glorious thing that’s writhing across his thighs—  
“ _Bad_ ,” she hisses, batting away his hand with a drowsy fist, and it’s not even a _no_ , not even a _stop_. She called Ren _bad_ , and he knows precisely what kind of mood she’s in tonight. He gulps, toes curling in the sheets; he’d grow harder, if he could. Fuck yes.  
He makes himself as still as possible, humming way out there on the horizon of too-far-gone, vision crossing with complete exhaustion and the way Rey fucks him with hard, sloppy drives of her hips. It’s perfect, and he’s losing it; he wants to touch, so badly, and can’t, doesn’t know where to put his hands— but Rey, beautiful, talented, Rey, is perfectly capable of multitasking:  without missing a hike in her hips, she pins his wrists gently above his head with the barest whisper of the Force. She’s velvet on his mind, grazing up his raw, quivering edges as his hands slide against the headboard, exposing his pale belly. _Don’t think._ So he doesn’t, lets his eyes close around the wetness budding there; Rey, his apprentice, his closest confidant, takes care of him in all things. Guides him, leaves him wanting for nothing. She will lead him through this. 

And she does, of course, fucking perfectly: things are moving so ridiculously fast (or slow, or sideways—he’s lost track), that all at once he’s nudging at the edge of losing it, seconds from spilling; everything about Rey is too white-hot for his played-out self, and he’s burning up quick. He groans, hips bucking up to take the last few penultimate thrusts, and then _what?_ – he’s being pinned down in a full body press. She’s holding him to the sheets, Force and hands and bodyweight, and somewhere through the insanity of this, Ren thinks he should’ve known ( _You’re bad_ , _Ren_ ): 

“No. Not yet.” Her voice is a half-whisper. When he opens his eyes, she’s looking down at him from over the swell of her heaving breasts, and her eyes are so hard, so buckled-down and flinty, that he remembers: you came from a desert, once. 

 _Yes,_ she agreed. _Yes. Can you feel it_? 

She squeezes around him, lewd, molten. Heaven.  
And then, Kylo Ren, Right Hand of the First Order, Sith lord, and half-decent attempt at terror incarnate, bursts into tears: he can’t come. He can’t come, he doesn’t get to, yet, and this too-hot, desiccated girl-not-girl is going to _burn him alive_ because everything about this is so fucking _perfect_. =

Things get a little foggy after that because he’s pretty much all the way gone, way out beyond tired, fuck, beyond aroused, even, and it’s only getting worse; Ren knows of nothing in this great, wide galaxy that can compare to how good it feels to yield. So he’s stuck like this, paradoxically trying to tamp himself low while building ever higher at the very thought of doing so. Of submitting, of giving himself over completely, wholly, to her. She’s marking him as hers in every way she knows, the mantra of _mineminemine_ tumbling from her lips, and Ren squirms in his little inch of leeway; she needs this, as he needs her. She lays claim to him with all the intensity of someone who’s never had anything of their own before, not one singular piece of scrap, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. She takes, he gives, and it might be agony, but that’s just it: that’s how they work. 

He tastes blood—must’ve bitten through his lip—then feels the roughness of her hands cupped across his cheeks, holding him steady, trying to ground him. His boiling tears spill across her knuckles, taste salty where they’ve worked their way into the bared-back corners of his mouth. It’s shameful. But there’s no time for shame, no time for _thought_ , because she’s riding him harder, faster, and Ren honestly isn’t sure how they haven’t both caught flame from the sheer, dirty friction of it.  
He isn’t even sure how Starkiller can still be turning, anymore. How the universe continues on in its old, abiding pace; this thing with Rey is too good and too horrific, too many burn-bright things in the same blinding moment, for any kind of continuity.  
His whole body is trembling, and he might be begging her to stop, please, _stop_ , or for her to go on forever and ever until they die. Or both at once, maybe; he’s not sure. All he knows is the sound that she makes when the angle’s just right, how her hands look, fisted in the sheets, and it’s Rey, it’s all completely _Rey_ –   
She comes, right then, at what might be the edge of all things, as far as Ren’s concerned. She comes, squeezing her little fists and trembling eyelids and hot, wet cunt, and it’s as good as acquiescence: he puts his hands on those hips like a man possessed and thrusts with the wordless, desperate need to finish. Up, up, slick and sloppy through the flush-flutter of her orgasm, then past it, until he’s crying out as he comes, too. 

White-blind, all over again, but this time, it’s _bliss_.

He realizes, sometime after that, that she’s talking to him.  
“—good. So good, Ren. So good for me.” She’s been draped across his chest, and he realizes that he’s still inside her, somehow. Her head is crooked into his neck, and she’s kind of teething on his shoulder like she can’t quite manage the strength for a bite. Her words are slurred, stupid with just—everything. Their fucking awful, endless day, the grim exhaustion of ashy smoke and bodies, piled, cooked in their skins. Of war. He noses into her hair, bringing her head up from his chest, and watches her eyes. The din recedes: the galaxy is a terribly, terribly large thing, even for him, but he’s here, warmed under her tiny body, tucked into in the place where he is needed.  
She’s watching him through half-closing eyes. He tries for a smile, and must mostly succeed: her kiss is light, and sweet, and nothing at all like the punishing bite he deserves, but. Well. He’s not complaining.  
And so it goes, with the two of them panting against one another’s sweaty skin, so very much alive while the planet turns beneath them, uninterested. Bitter wars wage coldy onward in the far reaches of some distant system, some far off moon. But here, now, Kylo Ren is tucking Rey into his chest with the very, very last dregs of his coherent thought. 

He kisses her again. And then, without much fanfare, they both promptly fall asleep. 

Ren dreams, blessedly, of nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> floatin-on-bespin.tumblr.com
> 
> comments always welcome!


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